PHAakd 


/e 


'—^i^O  BERT 


URDETTE 


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Alpha  and  Omega 

[A  Little  Cluster  of  Easter  Blossoms^ 


By 
Robert  J.  Burdette 


**/  am   the  Resurrection  and  the  Life;  he  that  believeth 

in  Me,  though  he  ivere  dead,  yet  shall  he  live; 

and  luhosoe'ver  liveth  and  believeth 

in  Me,  shall  never  die." 

JOHNll,25. 


r\ 


^• 


^A 


'15'^af  R  I  G  H  T  ,    1914 
BY 

Robert  J.  Bubdette 


To  My  Little  Granddaughter 
AROLINE  VIRGINIA  BURDETTE 

A  Loving  Easter  Greeting: 

To  a  Tiny  Bud  of  Human  Immortality 

A  Little  Life  that  please  God 

Will  unfold  its  tender  leaves  into 

Fragrant  Petals  of  Beautiful  Childhood 

Radiant  Blossoms  of  Happy  Girlhood 

Perfumed  Fruitage   of   Gracious   Womanhood 

All  the  Way  of  Her  Pilgrimage  may 

Hope  run  singing  before  her 

Faith  walk  praying  beside  her 

And  God*s  twin  angels,  Mercy  and  Peace, 

Follow  close  after  her. 


f\(YP9,9M 


Alpha 


s 


^ 


1^  TIGHT.     Silence.    A    struggle    for  the 
I  ^^    light.    And  he  did  not  know  what  light 
^         was.    An  effort  to  cry.    And  he  did  not 
/know  that  he  had  a  voice. 

'j^-^  THe  opened  his  eyes,  "and  there  was  light." 
"Me  had  never  used  his  eyes  before,  but  he  could 
.see  with  them. 

He  parted  his  lips  and  hailed  this  world  with 
pa  cry  for  help.     A  tiny  craft  in  sight  of  new 
shores;  he  wanted  his  latitude  and  longitude. 
He  could  not  tell  from  what  port  he  had  clear- 
ed; he  did  not  know  where  he  was;  he  had  no 
reckoning,  no  chart,  no  pilot. 

He  did  not  know  the  language  of  the  inhabi- 
tants of  the  planet  upon  which  Providence  had 
cast  him.  So  he  saluted  them  in  the  one  uni- 
versal speech  of  God's  creatures — a  cry.  Every- 
body— every  one  of  God's  children,  understands 
that. 

Nobody  knew  whence  he  came.  Some  one 
said,  "He  came  from  heaven."  They  did  not 
even  know  the  name  of  the  little  life  that  came 
throbbing  out  of  the  darkness  into  the  light. 
They  had  only  said,  "If  it  should  be  a  boy," 


[7] 


Alpha 

and,  "If  it  should  be  a  girl."     They  did  n61 
know. 

And  the  baby  himself  knew  as  little  about  it^, 
as  did  the  learned  people  gathered  to  welcome 
him.  He  heard  them  speak.  He  had  never 
used  his  ears  until  now,  but  he  could  hear  with 
them.  "A  good  lusty  cry,"  some  one  said.  He 
did  not  understand  the  words,  but  he  kept  on 
crying. 

Possibly  he  had  never  entertained  any  con- 
ception of  the  world  into  whose  citizenship  he?^  '  i 
was  now  received,  but  evidently  he  did  not  like  it.      ^ 
The  noises  of   it  were  harsh  to  his  sensitive 
nerves.    There  was  a  man's  voice — the  doctor' 
strong  and  reassuring.     There  was  a  woman's 
voice,  soothing  and  comforting — the  voice  of 
the  nurse.    And  one  was  a  mother's  voice.  There 
is  none  other  like  it.    It  was  the  first  music  he 
heard  in  this  world.    And  the  sweetest. 

By  and  by,  somebody  laughed  softly  and  said, 
in  coaxing  tones,  "There — there — there — give 
him  his  dinner." 

His  face  was  laid  close  against  the  fount  of 
life,  warm  and  white  and  tender.  Nobody  told 
him  what  to  do.  Nobody  taught  him.  He 
knew.    Placed  suddenly  on  the  guest-list  of  this 


J, 


[8] 


Alpha 

anging  old  caravansary,  he  knew  his  way  at 
once  to  the  two  best  places  in  it — his  bed  room 
and  the  dining  room. 

herever  he  came  from  he  must  have  made 
aGjong  journey,  for  he  was  tired  and  hungry 
when  he  reached  here.  Wanted  something  to 
eat  right  away.  When  he  got  it,  he  went  to 
sleep.  Slept  a  great  deal.  When  he  awoke,  he 
clamored  again,  in  the  universal  volapuk,  for 
fe-^reshment.     Had  it,  and  went  to  sleep  again. 

When  he  grew  older,  the  Wise  Men  told  him 
the  worst  thing  in  all  this  world,  of  many  good 
and  bad  things  that  he  could  do,  was  to  eat  just 
efore  going  to  sleep.  But  the  baby,  not  having 
learned  the  language  of  the  Wise  Men,  did  this 
very  worst  of  all  bad  things,  and  having  no  fear 
of  the  Wise  Men  and  no  modern  knowledge  of 
eugenics,  defiantly  throve  upon  it. 

He  looked  young,  but  made  himself  at  home 
with  the  easy  assurance  of  an  old  traveler.  Knew 
the  best  room  in  the  house,  demanded  it,  and 
got  it.  Nestled  into  his  mother's  arms  as  though 
he  had  been  measured  for  them. 

Found  that  "gracious  hollow  that  God  made" 
in  his  mother's  shoulder  that  fit  his  head  as  pil- 
lows of  down  never  could.     Cried  when  they 

[9] 


Alpha 

took  him  away  from  it,  when  he  was  a  tiny  bab 
"with  no  language  but  a  cry."  Cried  once  again, 
twenty-five  or  thirty  years  afterward,  when  GocTT 
took  it  away  from  him.    All  the  languages  he      f^ 
had    learned,    and    all    the    eloquent   phrasing 
the  colleges  had  taught  him,  could  not  then  so 
well  voice  the  sorrow  of  his  heart  as  the  tears  he^ 
tried  to  check.    The  true,  sweet,  loving,  honest 
tears  of  which  he  was  so  foolishly  ashamed. 

Poor  little  baby!     Had  to  go  to  school 
first  day  he  got  here.     Had  to  begin  his  lessons>^^'« 
at  once.     Got  praised  when  he  learned  them.\^^ 
Got  punished  when  he  missed  them. 

Bit  his  own  toes  and  cried  when  he  learne 
there  was  pain  in  this  world.  Studied  the  subject 
forty  years  before  he  learned  in  how  many  ways 
suffering  can  be  self-inflicted. 

Reached  for  the  moon  and  cried  because  he 
couldn't  get  it.  Reached  for  the  candle  and 
cried  because  he  could.  First  lessons  in  men- 
suration. Took  him  fifty  or  sixty  years  of  hard 
reading  to  learn  why  God  put  so  many  beau- 
tiful things  out  of  our  longing  reach. 

Made  everybody  laugh  long  before  he  could 
laugh  himself,  by  going  into  a  temper  because 
his  clothes  didn't  fit  him  or  his  dinner  wasn't 


[10] 


Alpha 

s^*ferved  promptly.  "Just  like  a  man,"  the  nurse 
said.  Nobody  in  the  family  could  tell  where  he 
got  his  temper.  Either  he  brought  it  witk  him, 
or  found  it  wrapped  and  addressed  to  his  room 
when  he  got  here.    At  any  rate,  he  began  to  use 

^t^very  shortly  after  his  arrival. 

I  y)>>r-  Always  said  he  lost  his  temper,  when  most 
^^^€€ftainly  he  had  it  and  was  using  it. 

Played  so  hard  sometimes  that  it  made  him 

cry.     Took  him  a  great  many  years  to  learn 

Yxh2it  too  much  play  is  sure  to  make  anybody  cry. 

J  By  and  by,  he  learned  to  laugh.  That  came 
later  than  some  of  the  other  things ;  much  later 
han  crying.  It  is  a  higher  accomplishment,  and 
more  artificial.  It  is  much  harder  to  learn,  and 
much  harder  to  do.  He  never  cried  unless  he 
wished,  and  felt  just  like  it.  But  he  learned  to 
laugh,  many,  many  times  when  he  wanted  to 
cry.  Laughed  when  his  body  ached,  his  head 
ached,  and  his  heart  ached. 

Grew  so,  after  awhile,  that  he  could  laugh 
with  a  heart  so  full  of  tears  they  glistened  in  his 
eyes.  Then  people  praised  his  laughter  the  most 
— "it  shone  in  his  very  eyes,"  they  said. 

Laughed,  one  baby  day,  to  see  the  motes 
dance  in  the  sunshine.     Laughed  at  them  once 

[11] 


Alpha 

again,  though  not  quite  so  cheerily,  many  ye 
later,  when  he  discovered  they  were  only  motes 
Motes  of  the  common  dust,  at  that. 

Cried,  one  baby  day,  when  he  was  tire 
play  and  wanted  to  be  lifted  in  the  mother  arms 
and  sung  to  sleep.     Cried  again  one  day  whem 
his  hair  was  white,  because  he  was  tired  of  work 
and  wanted  to  be  lifted  in  the  arms  of  God  and 
hushed  to  rest. 

Wished  one-half  his  life  that  he  was  a  ma 
Then  turned  around  and  wished  all  the  rest  of  it>^^v 
that  he  was  a  boy.  H 

Seeing,  hearing,  playing,  working,  resting, 
believing,  suffering  and  loving,  all  his  life  Ion 
he  kept  on  learning  the  same  things  he  began  to 
study  when  he  was  a  baby. 


[12] 


Omega 


NTIL  at  last,  when  he  had  learned  all  his 

lessons  and  school  was  out,  somebody 

lifted  him,  just  as  they  had  done  at  the 

Darkened  was  the  room,  and  quiet;  now, 

as  it  had  been  then.    Other  people  stood  about 

im,  very  like  the  people  who  stood  there  on 

at  other  time. 

There  was  a  doctor  now,  as  then;  only  this 

tor  wore  a  graver  look,  and  carried  a  Book 
in  his  hand.  There  was  a  man's  voice — the  doc- 
tor's, strong  and  reassuring.  There  was  a  wo- 
man's voice,  low  and  comforting — a  wife's. 

The  mother  voice  had  passed  into  silence. 
But  that  was  yet  the  one  he  could  most  distinctly 
hear.  The  others  he  heard,  as  he  heard  voices 
like  them  years  ago.  He  could  not  then  under- 
stand what  they  said;  he  did  not  understand 
them  now. 

He  parted  his  lips  again,  but  all  his  school- 
acquired  wealth  of  many-syllabled  eloquence, 
all  his  clear,  lucid  phrasing,  had  gone  back  to 
the  old  inarticulate  cry. 

Somebody  at  his  bedside  wept.  Tears  now, 
as  then.  But  now  they  were  not  tears  from  his 
eyes. 

[13] 


Omega 

Then,  some  one,  bending  over  him,  had  sai 
''He  came  from  heaven."  Now,  some  one,  stoop 
ing  above  him,  said,  "He  has  gone  to  heaven/' 
The  blessed,  unfaltering  faith  that  welcomed 
him,  now  bade  him  Godspeed,  just  as  loving  and 
trusting  as  ever,  one  unchanging  thing  in  tl^i 
world  of  change.  '^^ 

So  the  baby  had  walked  in  a  little  circle,  after 
all,  as  all  men,  lost  in  a  great  trackless  wilder- 
ness, are  said  always  to  do. 

As  it  was  written  thousands  of  years  ago-^''V 
"The  dove  found  no  rest  for  the  sole  of  her  foot,H 
and  she  returned  unto  him  in  the  Ark." 

He  felt  weary  now,  as  he  was  tired  then.  B 
and  by,  having  then  for  the  first  time  opened  his 
eyes,  now  for  the  last  time  he  closed  them.  And 
so,  as  one  who  in  the  gathering  darkness  retraces 
his  steps  by  a  half-remembered  path,  much  in 
the  same  way  as  he  had  come  into  this  world,  he 
went  out  of  it. 

Silence. 

Light. 


[14] 


Sleeping  in  the  Garden 

THE   Book   begins   with    a   garden — the 
Garden  of  Work — a  garden  to  be  kept 
and  tilled.    It  reaches  its  human  climax 
n  the  Garden  of  Renunciation — Gethsemane — 
here  the  will  of  God  is  the  fruitage  of  all  the 
ossoming  of  the  ages.    It  closes  with  the  divine 
d  human  perfection  in  the  Garden  of  Para- 
dise, sinless  and  pure.     Gardens  of  Service,  of 
ubmission,  of  Rest.     Always  God's  beautiful 
world  a  garden  of  use  and  loveliness,  of  bloom 
and  fruitage. 

In  the  Garden  of  Eden  the  Tree  of  Life  was 
a  thing  forbidden,  hedged  in  by  law  and  com- 
mandment. A  tree  of  death.  In  the  Garden  of 
the  City  it  is  the  chief  joy  and  beauty.  Its  very 
leaves  are  for  '^the  healing  of  the  nations."  It 
is  watered  and  nourished  by  the  fountains  of  the 
River  of  Everlasting  Life,  to  which  all  the  world 
is  bidden  to  "come  and  drink  freely."  No  angel 
with  flaming  sword  stands  guard  at  the  forbid- 
den gates,  "for  the  gates  thereof  shall  not  be 
shut  by  night  or  day." 

In  lands  not  so  fair  and  pleasant  as  this  earth- 
ly  paradise   of   our   own    California,    I    have 

[IS] 


Sleeping  in  the  Garden 


\_-^ 


preached,  and  I  have  heard  learned  men,  rii 
in  gifts  of  scholarship,  fragrant  with  eloquence 
preach   Easter  sermons   from   the   resurrection 
text— 

"I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life;  he  that 
believeth  in  Me  though  he  were  dead,  yet  shall^^ 
he  live;" — and  there,  as  a  rule,  the  preachei 
closed  the  unfinished  text.  The  final,  crownii 
sentence, — "And  whosoever  liveth  and  believeth 
in  Me  shall  never  die,"  was  omitted.  "It  wi 
hard  saying;  who  should  hear  it?"  That  thex^ 
dead  in  Christ  should  live  again,  that  we  knew^H 
But  that  the  living  believer  should  never  die? 
Oh,  but  the  disciples  did  die.  "Our  fathers  dii 
eat  manna  in  the  wilderness,  and  are  dead."  All 
men,  who  ever  tasted  the  sweetness  of  life,  should 
drink  the  bitterness  of  death.  Even  the  Lord  of 
Eternal  Life,  walking  the  pilgrimage  of  human- 
ity, lay  in  the  darkness  of  the  sepulcher,  man- 
acled in  the  iron  bands  of  death.  So,  because  I 
could  but  faultily  comprehend  it  myself,  I  never 
preached  from  that  phrase  of  the  great  Resur- 
rection text. 

Then,  in  a  happy  day,  I  came  to  live,  and  to 
preach  the  gospel  of  the  living  Christ  in  Califor- 
nia.   My  first  funeral  service  fell  on  a  mid-win- 


\ 


!^ 


^ 


[16] 


Sleeping  in  the  Garden 


day.    The  one  who  had  "fallen  asleep"  was 
an  old  saint  who,  living  and  dying,  had  "be- 
^^^lieved  in  the  Lord  Tesus  Christ."    And  wliere 
J^^^Ji)^      would  I  find  the  symbols  of  Easter — the  signs 
\^=^  *°:  jw*v   ^f  ^he  glorious  Resurrection?  There  were  none. 

V^IV-^^  X^^.^^ut  all  around  the  open  grave  December  was 
"     '  smiling  with  the  laughter  of  June.    Not  the  Res- 

urrection, but  Life  Everlasting  proclaimed  the 
winter  landscape.    December — and  the  roses  of 
hite  and  crimson  sang  together — "Everlasting 
Y^Lifel"    Midwinter — and  lily  and  heliotrope  and 
^^ycarnation  chanted,  "Eternal  Life!"     Oak  and 
pine  and  cypress  shouted  to  the  violets  bathing 
heir  feet  with  incense,  and  the  sunshine  crown- 
ing their  heads  with  glory,  "There  is  no  death!" 
Mockingbird,  meadow  lark  and  robin  joined 
with  blossoming  shrub  and  perfumed  vine  in  the 
joyous  chanson — "Life,  Life,  Everlasting  Life!" 

And  then  I  saw  that  all  the  year  of  God's  love 
was  spring  and  summer.  There  was  no  pathetic 
month  of  the  fading  blossom.  No  chilling  sea- 
son of  the  falling  leaf.  No  barren  winter  of  the 
dead  garden.  All  the  circling  year,  from  Janu- 
ary to  December,  sang  "Life,"  and  the  blossoms 
of  Christmas  were  ever  the  bloom  of  Easter. 
With  clearer  light  in  my  brain,  with  tenderer 


1^'  > 


7 


[17] 


Sleeping  in  the  Garden 


^d: 


love  in  my  heart,  with  brighter  faith  in 
soul,  I  preached  the  words  of  the  Lord  Jesus, 
"Whosoever  liveth  and  believeth  in  Me,  shalf 
never  die." 

Even  Death  could  not  abide  in  the  sepulcher 
tomb  wherein  lay  His  sleeping  body — the  bodyX 
that  men  called  dead.  N 1 

The  fountain  of  life  is  opened  on  the  crosi 
The  last  prayer  for  all  mankind — "Father,  for- 
give them" — is  uttered  out  of  the  fullness  of  a 
love  that  conquers  agony  and  forgets  self.     "It>  ' 
is  finished,"  falls  from  the  dying  lips  of  the  ever-\^"^ 
living  Christ.    Light  shines  out  of  the  darkness 
that  covers  the  earth.     Sublime  courage  growi 
up  out  of  abject  fear.    Love  and  Faith  come  to 
reanimate  the  souls  of  the  disciples.     Tender 
hands  take  the  body  of  Jesus  from  the  cross  and 
lay  it  away  in  a  holy  and  a  beautiful  place  "for 
in  the  place  where  He  was  crucified  there  was  a 
garden,  and  in  the  garden  a  new  tomb."    "A  sep- 
ulcher in  a  garden."     How  sweetly  must  He 
have  slumbered  there. 

They  tenderly  washed  from  the  dear  face  and 
body  all  stains  of  cruelty.  They  cleansed  with 
their  kisses  the  mangled  hands  and  washed  with 
their  tears  the  riven  side  and  cruel  halo  made 


¥5, 


[18] 


Sleeping  in  the  Garden 

the  crown  of  thorns.  In  the  pure  white  wrap- 
pings of  the  dead,  sweet  with  the  cleansing  mix- 
ture of  the  myrrh  and  aloes,  they  laid  Him  away. 
Then  they  rolled  the  great  stone  across  the  mouth 
of  the  sepulcher  and  so  shut  out  the  garish  light 
nd  all  discordant  sounds  of  earthly  life  and  fret, 
and  left  Him  there,  after  the  fearful  tumult  and 
discordant  clamor  of  the  day,  sleeping  quietly 
in  God's  dear,  restful,  gracious,  beautiful  silence 
— ^^Oh,  death  hath  made  his  darkness  beautiful 
with  Thee!" 

Then,  as  though  the  world  should  kneel  at 
His  dead  feet,  Rome  set  her  seal  upon  the  stone, 
that  no  one  should  dare  molest  His  quiet  and 
His  peace.  And  all  around  the  tomb  smiled 
"the  garden."  About  Him,  grasses  that  His  feet 
had  pressed.  Around  Him,  the  lilies  that  He 
loved.  Winging  their  way  above  Him,  the  happy 
birds  whose  careless  flight  His  eye  had  noted. 
Here  and  there,  the  trees  beneath  whose  shelter- 
ing arms  He  had  loved  to  pray.  Close  to  the 
gray  rocks  the  dainty  pink  and  white  of  the  cy- 
clamen, found  everywhere  in  Palestine.  Be- 
yond loomed  the  mountains  which  are  "round 
about  Jerusalem."  The  opal  skies  arched  over- 
head, and  now  and  then  the  soft,  cool  shadow  of 
some  white  cloud,  a  ship  in  the  pleasant  blue, 

[19] 


Sleeping  in  the  Garden 

drifted  across  the  garden.    Such  a  sweet,  beau 
ful  place  for  one  to  sleep.    O  child  of  God,  the 
graves  of  all  who  fall  asleep  are  made  in  gar-^' 
dens  of  loveliness.     Birds  of  eternal  hope  and 
blossoms  of  faith  fringe  every  sleeping  place, 
and  the  gentle  earth  lies  lightly  on  the  ashe 
that  we  love. 

Every  cemetery  in  Christendom  is  a  garden. 
Today,  in  climes  more  rigorous  than  ours,  men 
smile  with  tender  joy  to  see  that  the  grass  is  green 
in  the  sun-gleams  that  caress  the  little  mounds>^^'^ 
where  loved  ones  lie  asleep,  and  the  children\"^  c^T'^ 
find  the  delicate  anemones  like  stars  shining 
down  in  the  graveyard  grasses.  In  every  hom 
there  is  a  pictured  face  on  the  wall  that  brings 
the  longing  ache  into  the  heart.  But  the  dear 
absent  one  sleeps  in  a  garden,  and  everything  in 
the  garden,  grasses  and  buds  and  dainty  wild 
flowers,  stately  lily  and  queenly  rose,  majestic 
palm  and  oak,  and  pine — everything  in  the  gar- 
den sings,  and  sings,  and  sings  of  life — life — life 
— and  ever  more  life!  Not  of  decay  and  death. 
It  was  not  by  chance  they  laid  our  blessed  Lord 
in  "a  sepulcher  which  was  in  a  garden."  Had 
they  lain  Him  in  a  desert,  the  wilderness  had 
blossomed  around  Him,  and  the  gray  rocks  had 

[20] 


Sleeping  in  the  Garden 

roken  out  into  melody  of  song  like  caroling 
birds! 

Still  do  we  make  our  sepulchers  in  gardens, 
the  beautiful  place  of  the  dead  is  sweet  with 
blossoms  and  the  perfume  of  the  field  and  wood; 
^e  starred  forget-me-nots   nestle  close  to  the 
sleeping  face;  April  and  May  and  June  meet 
amid  the  white  stones  that  mark  that  spot  which 
love  remembers;  and  the  sunshine  comes  with  a 
tenderer  glory  to  kiss  the  growing,  living  em- 
fs^blems  of  immortality.     Art,  at  the  bidding  of 
i^/loving   memory,    touched    with    tender    pride, 
comes  to  grave  the  stone  into  shapes  of  beauty, 
nd  rear  the  lofty  monument  in  the  stately  ma- 
jesty of  grief.     Men  carve  their  tributes  into 
the  face  of  the  marble  and  granite.     But  ever- 
more the  beauty,  and  grace  and  splendor,  the 
majesty  and  the  prophecy  of  the  sepulcher  is 
"the  garden"  in  which  it  stands. 


[21] 


God's  Days  and  Mine 

THERE  are  two  days  in  the  week  abou 
which    I    never  worry.     Two    Golden 
Days,  kept  sacredly  free  from  fear  and 
apprehension.  •  C^ 

One  of  these  Days  is  Yesterday.  \  ,^J^ 

Yesterday,  with  all  its  cares  and  frets  and 
disappointments,  with  all  its  pains  and  sorrows, 
has  passed  forever  beyond  the  power  of  my  con- 
trol, beyond  the  reach  of  my  recall.  I  cannot 
undo  an  act  that  I  wrought;  I  cannot  recall  s^st 
word  that  I  said;  I  cannot  calm  a  storm  that-, 
raged  on  Yesterday.  All  that  it  holds  of  my; 
life,  of  regret  or  sorrow,  or  wrong,  is  in  th 
hands  of  the  Mighty  Love  that  can  bring  oil 
out  of  the  rock  and  sweet  waters  out  of  the  bit- 
ter desert — the  Love  that  can  make  the  wrong 
things  right,  and  turn  mourning  into  laughter. 
Save  for  the  beautiful  memories,  sweet  and  ten- 
der, that  linger  like  perfume  of  dried  roses  in 
the  heart  of  the  day  that  is  gone,  I  have  nothing 
to  do  with  Yesterday.    It  was  mine ;  it  is  God's. 

And  the  other  Day  I  do  not  worry  over,  is 
To-morrow. 

To-morrow,  with  all  its  possible  cares,  its 
burdens,  its  sorrows,  its  perils,  its  boastful  prom- 

[22] 


God's  Days  and  Mine 

fes  and  poor  performings,  its  good  intentions 
and  its  bitter  mistakes,  is  as  far  beyond  my 
reach  of  mastership,  as  its  dead  sister,  Yester- 
day. Its  sun  may  rise  in  roseate  splendor  or 
behind  a  mask  of  weeping  clouds.  But  it  will 
rise.  And  it  will  be  God's  Day.  It  is  God's 
Day.  It  will  be  mine.  Save  for  the  star  of 
Hope  that  gleams  forever  on  its  brow,  shining 
th  tender  promise  into  the  heart  of  To-day, 
ave  no  possession  in  To-morrow.     All  else 

s  in  the  safe  keeping  of  the  same  infinite  Love 

hat  holds  the  treasures  of  Yesterday.  All  that 
To-morrow  has  for  me  I  can  trust  to  the  Love 
Jhat  is  wider  than  the  skies,  deeper  than  the  seas, 

igher  than  the  stars. 

There  is  left  for  myself,  then,  nothing  but 
To-day. 

And  any  man  can  fight  the  battle  of  To-day. 
Any  man  can  carry  the  burdens  of  just  one  Day. 
Any  man  can  resist  To-day's  temptations.  This 
is  the  strength  that  makes  the  way  of  my  pil- 
grimage joyous.  I  think,  and  I  do,  and  I  jour- 
ney, but  one  Day  at  a  time.  That  is  the  Easy 
Day;  that  is,  the  Human  Day.  And  while  I  do 
that,  God  the  Almighty  and  the  All-Loving, 
takes  care  of  Yesterday  and  To-morrow,  which 
I  could  never  do. 

[23] 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


